The Legos hurt the most.
Stack four of them on top of each other
and let fly at 95 miles an hour.
Mass and sharp edges right in the chest.
4 boys between 10 and 14.
Shirtless so the cuts and bruises would show
after the war.
No light allowed.
Curtains closed and clipped shut.
Towels shoved under the door so no light could enter.
We would use anything available.
Like the homeless men with their shopping carts,
so too were we with our arsenal.
Blocks of wood, hardback books, an alarm clock,
the remote control, hot wheels, baseball gloves,
dice, metal spoons, frisbees, Ginger Snaps
were all thrown in the dark.
Once Luke, the youngest, found an old
20-pound, yellow, solid metal
He delivered it with desperate force onto my back,
knocking the air from my lungs,
sending me face first into the hard wall.
My nose was bloodied,
My ribs were crushed,
My eyes were leaking,
My spirit was flying.
Ben Jatos is a high school English teacher who writes when he is caught up with his grading. He has been published in Slice Magazine, Moonchild Magazine and a few others.